Sometimes as a parent it's hard to relinquish control over the bodies of our children.  To realise that although they're our child, they're their own person.  It's their body.

They spend the majority of their days in uniform being taught to conform, to be the same.  They are told what to wear and how to wear it even down to their shoes and socks.  They have no freedom of choice or self expression.  It's all decided for them and then dictated to them.

What babies really want for their first birthday

Even as I type this I still find it hard to believe that Moomin will be a year old at the end of this month.  A whole year old.  How?!  It's cruel how quickly time slips through our fingers, I can still remember going into labour to birth her.

As she's our fourth baby, she already has a toy shop worth of toys that were once her siblings as well as token additions just for her.  Advertisements, shops and catalogues are near exploding with noisy, shiny things that she absolutely needs, apparently.

She can't talk yet, what with her being 11 months old and nor can she write her own birthday list.

What would she want though if she could tell us?  It's not hard to work out, all it takes is an exercise in observation.

So I present to you, the birthday list of what a one year old really wants to play with:

Why I rarely get Moomin weighed.

From the moment our babies are born their lives are dominated by numbers, how many weeks pregnant was their mum? How long was labour?  How much did they weigh?  How long are they?

Then it's how many feeds to they have?  How often are they feeding?  How long do they sleep? How many wet nappies are they producing?  How many dirty nappies?

It doesn't stop.

Our babies become defined by these numbers.

How many teeth do they have?  How much weight have they lost/gained?  What percentile are they on?  How much are they drinking?    How often?

How to gently stop your young child interrupting your conversation

You're familiar with the scene, you're talking to your partner or a friend and out of nowhere your child interrupts.  Multiple times.  You try explaining that it's rude or that they need to wait until you've finished talking yet it keeps happening.

The thing is, they're not being rude.  Often they haven't even fully grasped the concept of what rude is in a social setting (other than bad words).  They're not thinking about interrupting you, it's not a premeditated action.  They'll get an idea or thought in their head and they just need to share it, instantly.  They have no idea how long you'll be talking for, when you'll stop or even if you'll stop.  Often they'll mistake a pause for an end and interject.

Babymoov Ambassador: Muslin Blanket Review

Available from Babymoov

Sometimes it's the simple things that are most useful.  When pregnant with my first, back in 2003, I hadn't the foggiest idea about what muslin cloths were used for.  Now I have my fourth baby, they're on my list of must haves!  It wasn't until last year that I even became aware of that they came in various sizes too.

Babymoov sell muslins in packs of three, in a variety of quirky prints.  In each pack you get one large 80cmx80cm and two medium 60 x 60 all neatly rolled up in a gift-worthy display box.  

The beauty of muslins is that they're incredibly versatile and multi purpose.  Just some of the uses:

The internet Mum-doctors.

If you're a Mum you've probably at some had an ill baby or been concerned something may be wrong yet you're uncertain what to do, you don't want to be labelled the neurotic Mum at the Dr's nor do you want to not go and risk your child growing a second head that then explodes.  You crave advice or validation or even just good old virtual hand-holding.  You've learned from the past not to ask good old Dr Google seeing as you start with a mere splinter yet end up with something you can't pronounce that's possibly terminal.  So you turn to people you think will understand, other parents.

The Rubber Ducky Hack

Through the eyes of children

I challenged myself to stand, starkers, in front of a full length mirror and pick one thing about my body that is 'okay'.  It was a harder task then it sounds. I saw my lank hair.  I saw my weary eyes.  I saw my straggly brows.  I saw a double chin.  I saw bingo wings. I saw a thick waist. I saw a forehead scored with creases and lines.   I saw a large overhanging belly ravaged with stretchmarks. I saw back fat. I saw tits I could dust my toes with.  I eventually decided on my knees. My knees are okay.  I could look at my knees without feeling sick.  They're not fab knees by any means.  They're just inoffensive. 

If I had to describe myself I'd say 5 ft 7 ish, blue/green eyes,  dark red hair, pale skin, pierced,  tattooed, dowdy,  aged,  fat and ugly.  

The next task was even harder; to look at my inner reflection.  The 'Me'. My inner reflection is crippled by mental illness.  I used to be lots of things.  I had infinite likes and dislikes.  I could inspire and be inspired. I was opinionated and present.  I could lead. I was alive. I had a look. I could be vibrant,  quirky,  bubbly,  intense and yes.... fucking annoying.  But I was someone (at times it felt like I was several someones) I was something.  

Now? I'm nobody.  I'm nothing. 

It's not an emo thing.  It's an empty thing. 

I rarely leave the house. I don't speak to anyone.  I have no hobbies or interests anymore.  The few friends I have, live in my computer.  I rarely wear makeup.  I often forget to brush my hair.  I  have only a handful of clothes; they're bland.   I have to concentrate to remember to talk or move or even just to be. I'm insular, anxious, sad, angry, lonely boring, numb and empty.  I enjoy very few things other than The Spawn.

I can't define myself because there's not enough me to define.

I worry that my kids deserve better.  That they deserve more.  That they'll resent me for hardly going out.  For not being interesting or funny or beautiful.  For failing at Pinterest. 

So I asked them to describe me.  And they did. 

Kids are brutal.  And honest.  I expected them to say that I'm fat, cross, sad, boring and never go anywhere or do anything with them.  

Never assume how others see you.  Don't let who and what you think you are define how you think others see you. They have their own eyes and minds.

Take a walk outside your mind.

You only have one life. It's wasted if you live it inside yourself.

We are our own prison.

I'm Mamaundone,  I have okay knees, awesome kids and my story isn't over yet .

There's a lot of blank pages to fill.



Look in a mirror today.  Tell me:

* One part of your body you like
* Something about your face you like
* Three positive things about your personality.

Moomin's Birth Story

Out of all my pregnancies, this last one was the only 'surprise'.  The Husband and I had marriage shattering debates on the topic as I desperately longed for one more baby and he categorically declared no.  It's hard to accept something that someone else has decided with regards to something that means so much to you.  However when it comes to having children, both partners have to be on the same page.

So how apt that after all that, our darling Moomin decided for us, there would indeed be a fourth baby.

I knew from the very start that this is it, my last ever pregnancy and wanted to cherish every moment of my final pregnancy.  Pregnancy enthralls and fascinates me.  I find it awe inspiring and magical that a whole life...a soul..a person is created.  Yet it's hard to enjoy something when you're so affected. 

By 39 weeks I'd had enough.  We're not talking the usual full term fed up blues here.  We're talking about being virtually housebound for months leaving the house around once a week due to chronic pain.  Hip pain, pelvic pain, back pain.  It hurt to sit, to stand, to lay down. Everything hurt then add to that sciatica that felt like it was on steroids.  9 months of unmedicated mental health wasn't helping combined with the M.E/CFS and Insomnia.  I couldn't go anywhere or do anything.  Even the family annual day out to Blackpool was cancelled because of my pain.  The summer holidays were a wash out, it was heartbreaking not even being able to bend down to pick something up or walk to the shops let alone do anything with my children.  This has the knock on effect of The Husband having to do everything.  Then came two weeks of back to back headaches/migraines and a chest infection which 5 weeks later i'm still recovering from.  Needless to say I was miserable.  All out of cope.  I spent my time either in tears or in a venomously vile mood.  I was awful to be around.  The straw that broke the pregzillahs back was the sweep, or lack of.  It had been agreed with my Midwife for some time that i'd get an early sweep at my 39+5 appointment.  I was living for this day.  It was the beacon that stopped me spiraling into quite frankly, despair.  

39+5 came.  I knew my cervix was favourable.  I didn't get a sweep.  Moomin was still 'free'.  The Midwife declared the (small) risk of cord prolapse meant she couldn't do it.  I respect this.  I'd never want her to do something she wasn't comfortable with.  Yet not once did she discuss ways to get her to engage or even the fact that Moomin is my fourth baby and was unlikely to engage before labour anyway and that labour itself is often what makes them engage. However, knowing my predicament she had several choices:

1. Refer me to the hospital to see if they'd be willing to do a sweep

2. Offer to check babies position again in a few days

3. Discuss induction

What she actually did was say 'see you in a week'.  

This quite frankly broke the tiny parts of me that weren't already broken.  I'll be honest, I felt let down and abandoned by her.  She just didn't seem to care, at all.  The level of pain i was in and the mental health issues should have flagged her to keep an eye on me, she just didn't care.  When she left I had to disappear to my room, away from The Spawn and cried, for 40 minutes solid.  

I couldn't talk about sweeps, labour, babies or pregnancy without falling, hard, into the dark.  I finally got to a GP for antibiotics after three weeks of a chest infection and broke down in tears.  Bare in mind, apart from in this particular pregnancy, I don't cry.  Especially in front of anyone. Even The Husband has only ever seen me cry around 5 times in 14 years and three of those were in this pregnancy.

The darkness was around me.  My head was broken.  I even did something I'd never done before and cut off one of my only lifelines to real people and deactivated my facebook.  Sounds mellow dramatic but other than my family, the only contact I have with other humans is online.

The antibiotics I got at 40+3 didn't agree with me at all.  I started to feel nauseous, I couldn't eat or sleep and just felt shaky and 'strange' so had to stop taking them.

My bottle of clary sage oil was now empty.  I'd been riding my birth ball like a cowgirl on crack.  I'd been twiddling my nipples like a bored porn star.  Nothing.  Nada.  Not even a tickle let alone a cramp.

Don't get me wrong, I'd have begrudgingly held on an extra month if I wasn't so debilitated, in fact it would have ensured Moomin would start school at 5 instead or 4 which I'd love.  

40+5 The Midwife came round.  Immune to my misery and despondence.  Moomin still not engaged yet now she decides she actually would try a sweep despite my situation being identical to last week when she'd refused.   

She recorded me as having a Bishops Score of 6, stated I was 2-3 cm's dilated and that my waters would be incredibly easy to break.  She booked me in for an induction for 41+5.

With Things One & Two labour started 4 hours after my sweep.  With The Little Dude (formerly The Preschooler) labour started within 24 hours.

Back on the birth ball I went, yet no cramps or anything.  That evening I lost lost copious amounts of the mucus plug and soon that was followed by bloody shows which continued throughout the next day yet that was it.  No twinges or cramps or anything else.  Zilch.  Nada.  Induction it would be then. A whole week to get through.

Until i woke up two days after the sweep at exactly 41+0. I went to run a bath and felt a drip down my thigh.  Not an 'oops my pelvic floor is drunk' drip.  Strange.  I returned to my room and felt, heard then saw random splats of clear liquid hit the carpet.  My waters have never broken on their own before, they'd always been broken during labour by a Midwife, usually minutes/seconds before a baby followed.  

In labour tradition I text my bestie.  Still unconvinced it was my waters yet unable to substitute an alternative explanation for the splats of liquid that were constantly dripping.  Still no pains, no cramps not even a rumble in the tummy.  This was approximately 09:35am.

09:50 I phoned antenatal Triage.  She told me to put a pad on and a community Midwife would call round within 6 hours to check on me and to phone back if any pain started.  

At around 09:55 the community Midwife phoned to tell me she was on a visit but would come round within the hour.  Dean called his parents telling them to start the two bus journey to get here.

10.00 Ouch. No preamble.  Full on knee buckling contraction.  The Husband phones his parents back and tells them to sod the buses, get a taxi. NOW.

10:10 I'd had three huge contractions lasting 1.5-2 minutes each.  

After the next few I stopped timing because they were on top of each other.  I couldn't tell when they started and stopped any more.  I was breathless, in tears, leaning over the cot gripping it for dear life.  Waters still dripping, then gushing....continually.  Knickers and pad are saturated.  I couldn't move.  I couldn't talk.  10-15 minutes before this I was 100% fine.

I call Triage SIX times, they're engaged.  I'm panicking. The Community Midwife calls to check on me and tells me to go to hospital immediately, she'll tell triage for me.  Dean phones for an ambulance but not until his parents arrived to look after The Spawn, I was on all fours rocking, gasping through none relenting pain, trying to remember how to breath as my waters continue to gush and drip through what seems like an eternal contraction, no break.

The ambulance took 30+ minutes to get here.  I won't lie, I had images of The Husband having to deliver.  

The paramedics come up to my bedroom where i'm on all fours on a nest of towels, the 999 phone operative had tried to get dean to convince me to lay on my back, wasn't going to happen. The longest walk ever ensued, hobbling down the stairs, rigid with pain, a towel between my legs, in my slippers up the outside steps and towards the ambulance where thank fuck, they had Entinox.

When in pain, I become incredibly detached and internalised, this is often mistaken for an absence of pain when in fact it's the reverse.  The more removed from people and situ I become the more I'm engulfed in pain.  I was guessing I'd be at least 8cm.  I refused to accept I'd be any more.  One of the reasons I barley have to push to birth my babies is because I block out the feeling of needing to push so that they descend completely on their own.  I guess it's a form of denial.  

The journey seemed to take forever, the paramedic wouldn't shut up and the Entinox kept making sounds like a ripe fart.

At the hospital the paramedics take me in on the bed, to the central delivery unit where we were met with a right battle axe of a midwife, with a 'none shall pass' attitude claiming she had no idea who we were and why we were there.  A human midwife took pity and asked if maybe we were booked in with the birth suite (midwife led).  Yes, why yes I am..... the paramedics had brought us to the wrong place as they had no idea there were two.  We eventually got to the right place.  In an Entinox high I just about manage to get from the ambulance bed trolley to the beanbag bed and roll onto my side.

The Midwife starts to read my notes and birthplan.  She tries to carry out her initial checks but to do that she needs a break in the contractions yet she could see there were none.  Eventually she just about managed to get my BP and heart rate done.  I can't move.  I'm actually rigid with pain yet she needed me to roll onto my back to check me.  I'm still in my clothes and slippers.  I beg for diamorphine, she manages to look and tells me it's too late, babies head is already there.  It probably had been for quite a while.  

Denial. This is not happening.  This is not part of the plan.  Where's my water birth?  Where's my diamorphine?  I'm still fully dressed.  I know she's right though.  I pretended to myself I couldn't feel it but of course I'd known, somewhere in my head, all along that that horrendous weight down below bearing down was her head.  No way could I push her out without more drugs.  I was desperate for us all to be wrong, so secretly flexed more then bore down, a nudge so to speak.  More like a fart than a poo.  Just to test.  Shit.... that's all it took and her head was out.  We'd been there less than 20 minutes.  The surprise is like thinking you've farted and realising you've actually shat yourself.  That tiny little experiment should not have resulted in her head being born!  I did it again, more a reflex than an actual effort and the body whooshed out with even more liquid.  That was it.  She was born.  That's all it took.  I stared at this vernix covered chunky baby being held up to me in disbelief.  How had this happened?  I can only describe it as surreal.  

Moomin was cross.  Really cross.  Pissed of even.  I jokingly remarked mid Entinox high that she's pissed off by the lack of available boob.  I was right.  I stripped off and she latched on immediately and began to feed for best part of an hour.  My others took days to really feed being sleepy from labour meds.  Moomin was alert and knew exactly what she wanted.

She's fed none stop since.

We were due to go home that evening but blood results came back that we had ABO incompatibility and she had to be observed for 24 hours.  Thankfully due to our absolutely amazing Midwife, because of my mental health issues she managed to secure me my own room and let us stay in the birth suite until The Husband left that evening.  She was so intuitive and respectful.  She left us alone with Moomin for an hour before even suggesting she got weighed etc.  I couldn't have asked for a better Midwife.  

Moomin turned out to be 8lb 14oz.  The vernix was so thick that they could only conduct part of the hearing test later that day as her other ear was full of it.

Labour was 90 minutes from the first contraction until birth.  She was born at 11.41am on Friday 29th August.  We registered her before we left the next day.  Afterpains are a horrid bitch.   I only needed three tiny stitches.

I am absolutely besotted with this little enchantress as are her siblings and The Husband.  She's still feeding like a champ.  In fact writing this up has been the longest she's been out of my arms, other than at night, since she was born 8 days ago.  She's fast asleep in her reclined chair next to me yet my arms ache to scoop her up as she spends the majority of her time laid on me.    She's my last baby.  I'm going to enjoy every cuddle I can.  As soon as they're born it's like someone presses fast forward on time.  I still can't believe she's already 8 days old.

Fun With Water Beads

If there's one thing the local town has in abundance, it's pound shops.  They appear to be everywhere.  I'll admit to rather liking them at times, obviously some are considerably more palatable than others.  Some are a sweaty dark caverns of doom with over stacked shelves looming over you with tit and tat that you'll never need yet judging by the price you convince yourself you might need it, someday.  Yet others are simply bargain central.  I can't for the life of me remember the name of it yet there's one in particular that is light, airy, tidy and well presented.  The perfect stop for those pesky hairslides that Thing Two inevitably loses, all the time.  I refuse to fork out extortionate amounts for them when I can get 30 for £1!  Their six packs of baby flannels make excellent reusable nappy wipes and it's a little haven for cheap craft and art bits and bats for The Spawn.  It also means, after a boring shopping trip we can afford to treat The Preschooler.  He easily finds something he'd like in there every single visit and at a pound a pop, why not?

On our last visit there I was drawn to something I've been tempted to try for some time, water beads!  I'm not one for popping into florist supply shops on a whim and I never quite got round to ordering them online so this seemed almost like an omen.  I'll admit to being a trifle suspicious at what we'd get for a £1 so the skeptical side of me purchased two boxes just in case.

It's a rather simple process, you simply add the minuscule little packets of colourful doo-dahs to water.  They came with their own test tubes with the suggestion you fill it with a colour of your choice.  Sod that.  It would be akin to picking out a particular colour from cake sprinkles.  Never to do something by halves we opted instead to dump both packs into a large bowl of water.  The idea is you then observe as they grow.    I'm never quite sure who has the least spectacular attention span, myself or The Preschooler, regardless, neither of us were bored enough to stare at a bowl of water for longer than a few minutes.  Granted they did grow, yet they seemed to stop producing a deflated 'is that it?!' reaction from the both of us.  To say it was underwhelming would be an understatement.  I decided to give them the benefit of the doubt as the instructions have no indication as to how long it should take for them to expand fully.

We checked on their progress about an hour or so later and this was more liking to what I had expected, we
had a slimy bowl of multicoloured marble sized balls in water.  It's impossible to gaze upon them and not plunge your hand into them.  There is something creepy yet utterly satisfying about the slippery slime of the water and these slippery balls.  Granted the little buggers like escaping and they're an arse to pick up off the floor.





Their charm proved irresistible to Thing Two also.  She couldn't stop herself from plunging her hand into them.  In her usual effortless way she encouraged play through asking The Preschooler to find certain colours to make 'potions' as I introduced some measuring cups and the test tubes.

Seeing water slop all over the show I drained the beads so they had the shiny, glistening, oddly textured little balls of delight to play with, without the added mess of water.  This proved equally as satisfying to them and just as beguiling.  I feared they'd have a limited attraction, a mere novelty yet they audibly groaned when I told them it was time to tidy up and the first thing Thing Two requested to play with upon arriving home from school today was the water beads.






They are tempting though.  Just a mere glance of them is teasing to the senses.  I'll admit to having dunked
by hand into them on several occasions today in passing.

I think they'd look stunning over a lightbox in a dark room.  They'd also be more engaging with a longer shallower tub to hold them in.

These are sublime for sensory play and are helpful in teaching colours and the notions of absorbing and expanding. If you haven't tried them already, I highly recommend you give them a go.

The Bad Mother's Handbook: how to successfully steal your child's chocolate.

Easter loot is much easier to store if you get rid of all the excess packaging and break up the eggs into bite size pieces.  These can then be stored along with the sweets etc in zip lock bags or tupperware tubs.  Write each child's name on their bag to avoid war breaking out.  

The other bonus of storing them like this is that you can routinely pinch their loot and they rarely realise.  It's not as obvious when pieces from a whole bag of pieces go missing. Likewise it's harder to keep track of how much should be in there.  Win!

I believe is terribly important that children learn valuable life lessons so also use easter as an opportunity to introduce the notion of tax under the notion of chocolate tax. Thus every time a child earns some chocolate it's your responsibility to tax it. Essentially they have to hand over some of their chocolate before they can eat some. 

Of course we're only thinking of their teeth. Honest. 

'I Hate You!'

It's easy to become complacent in parenting and then one of the little sods will throw us a curveball, just to remind us they're all so delightfully different.

The Preschooler has somehow picked up the phrase 'I HATE YOU' and will throw it at us whenever he feels we have done him a disservice. This is new to us. Things One & Two have never uttered this. We've always explained things such as the true meaning of words and to mean what you say. They know that they may strongly dislike something or someone but the chances are they don't actually hate them and vice versa with the term love. So it's somewhat trifling as to where The Preschooler garnered this phrase from that he throws around so readily. It seems we're having to go around this development somewhat arse over tit insofar as to say rather then emphasising the words power and meaning we're having to simultaneously strip it of it too. Why is this parenting lark never simple?

So how do you react to a three year old declaring that he hates you, or his siblings?

Things One and Two have that instinctive response of 'I hate you too' to which we have to insist they refrain from using, because they don't...hate him, not really.  They'll readily admit this when they think about it because that's part of what we're doing, trying to make them think about what they say. To only say something if they mean it. It's like when The Preschooler states 'You're not using my crayons, EVER again!' their instinct is to respond with 'well you're not allowed to use my [whatever] then!' Which isn't terribly helpful. rather than diffuse the situation it merely ignites it. It's teaching The Preschooler that his initial declaration was the right thing to do, that this is how we operate. This is how we treat each other and that too not share out of spite is acceptable.

I'll admit I'm working blind here but I respond to the infamous 'I HATE YOU.' with something along the lines of 'well that's a shame because I love you' I feel it's important to face adversity with security. That he realises no matter what he says, I still love him and he can't make me stop that. It often diffuses the situation. Other times I may reply with 'Oh, that makes Mummy feel sad as she loves you very much' which I feel, subtly without reproach, expresses the effect his words can have on others feelings whilst still re-enforcing that he is loved regardless.  Most of all it's accepting what he's saying.  I may not like it or agree with it and hell, I don't even think he means it but it's important that he feels his thoughts and feelings are valid.  Often we reflect more upon them once they're accepted.

Nine times out of ten within ten minutes he'll either spontaneously tell me he loves me or ever start a conversation with me. With the latter I'll occasionally respond with 'oh but I thought you hated me?' A rather sincere little voice will then tell me 'I don't really' he's had time to reflect on what he's said without being made too.

His other favourite phrase mid rage is 'I'm not talking to you anymore! ' usually said when you're trying to explain something to him. My usual response is an 'okay'. It's frustrating yet I know if I rise to the bait to make him stay and discuss something it will ignite. The lack of reaction is what diffuses this ticking bomb. Predictably within five minutes he'll start a conversation, this is where I remind him of his previous actions 'Oh but I thought you weren't talking to me? ' It's subtle and silent but this is where the penny drops and he realises the ramifications of his words and offers an indignant little 'But I am now! '

Often the above scenario is accompanied by a quality sulk. Usually if I'm trying to have a conversation with him or get him to do something I've asked of him the 'I'm not talking to you! ' is accompanied by him storming off to sulk somewhere. The Little diva even slams doors en route. The huntress within me is raging and indignant. How dare he walk away when I'm talking to him? ! How dare he refuse to pick the pens up that he threw! It goads me to chase and confront. To hunt him down until he submits.

And that urge? That instinctive indignant drive is exactly what fuels his behaviour yet how on earth is he to learn to control it if I can't as an adult?  Instinct is a powerful thing and we shouldn't smother it, the learning curve is that we shouldn't always act upon it.

Practising restraint I have to use the ancient art of patience. Not something that comes naturally to me so it's no surprise that with inheriting my explosive temper they'll also inherit my lacking patience.

Now it's the waiting game. Usually he'll either return with a sincere little 'sorry' or else he will ask something un connected.

If it's the former I'll ask him to tell me why he's sorry. It's important to establish whether he's understood what's happened or whether he just feels it's something he should say. Often he'll surprise me and relay what happened.

If it's the latter I'll calmly state that I'll happily talk after he's picked the pens up. This option he dislikes. It's important that whilst I'm not conversing with him I'm also not completely ignoring him as I feel ignoring is counter productive. To close communication channels completely is sending out a harmful message which could have repercussions on how and what your child communicates to you in the future.

However, I will firmly refuse to engage meaningfully until he's addressed the issue and embarked upon its resolution.

So for now it's the 'I hate you's' and the 'I'm not talking to you's' with the door slammings and sulks. Yes, he's a diva but he's our diva. He's also just a four year old learning how to deal with strong emotions and concepts. It's inevitable that he'll have to push some boundaries in the process. It's intrinsic that he feels secure enough to be able to do this. To know that although his reactions may not always be acceptable, they are valid.

He's learning important life lessons here like people piss you off and likewise you probably piss them off too.

And that's okay.

Honest.

Toddlers Guide to going out : By A. Toddler

Listen up buddies, huddle.  Yeah you at the back too, lets huddle and listen up.  This is important life stuff we be sharing here.

At times, parents will decide to take us out, into that big world place.  Like with everything we do we have rules and rules must be followed.

 It's important parents don't start off under any guise that this will be easy.  This will never ever be easy.  They got themselves into this mess and they can now deal with the repercussions.

Before we leave:

1. You'll see a bag, a big bag.  Mummy & Daddy can't leave the house without it.  In it you'll find a miniature world.  It has toys, nappies, wipes, nappy sacks, snacks, clothes.  All the good stuff.  Parents are playful creatures yet if we neglect to engage in games with them, they become lazy and bored and then they become destructive.  Now locate this bag, open it and....empty it.  Empty it good.  Done that?  Stay with us bro, you're not done yet.  Choose an item, or three and hide it.  Now we're talking.

2. Timing is everything.  Everything. You must be vigilant at all times, look out for the signs of departure such as rampant re-packing of the bag, shoes and coats going on.  Wait, wait for it. Now 1,2,3 SHIT. Doesn't that feel good? Flash that dimply smile, work it baby.  Now this is your shit.  You made it, you squeezed it.  Right now it's even warm.  They will try and take it! Why they think they can take it before we've finished rolling in it is beyond me, parents think in mysterious ways.  It's our job to rewire this thinking, to redirect these erranous ways.  Avoid being tackled.  Wriggle, squirm, kick and scream.  Now here comes the fresh one, all soft and clean.  No shit is complete without a wee.  Only ingrates will wee on a poo nappy.  They can take our nappies but they will never take our freedom,. Wee! that's it, right there.  If you have a willy, aim for the face dude! If you don't, even better.  It will make a nice warm little pool under you and you'll need clean clothes too! Bonus points!

In the Car

1. Some parents have brum brums.  You get put into this seat and get to stare at the back of a seat.  It's time to warm up those vocal chords my friends.  Wait until the vehicle is in motion and CRY. It's vital they focus their attention on you and not the brum brum.  Just before you arrive at your destination, sleep.  After all it's exhausting being a baby or ttoddler  This will then teach them the lesson of 'you put us in here now you work out how to get us out.  Without waking us'  This is a mental exercise and helps keep their logic and problem solving areas of the brain working and in tip top shape.

In the buggy

1. Excellent, your own set of wheels.   Check out the chrome on mine baby.  Yeah.  These are comfy as, comfy as i'm saying.  However, where's the fun, the effort in pushing one of these?  They hang their shopping on them, ruining the suspension and they're not concentrating on US. Rookie error on their part, it's okay.  The correction for this is simple.  CRY. If you cry hard enough and long enough they will pick you up.  This is more like it, now they have to carry us, jiggle us, shush us AND steer the buggy.  Their coordination skills are getting a thorough work out now.  If they're playing candy crush or if your mum is parked in the loos taking selfies there may be a delay in their reaction time.  Just cry harder.  Simples.  Cry like you're being tortured and look pleadingly to any passers by.  Give them your best 'rescue me!' look.  They then put the guilts on your parent and voila, we get the reaction.

2. When it's raining they use this absurd thing, like a bubble.  What the hell is that about?  Rain is good, it goes splishy splashy drip drop!  Yet for some reason, it starts to rain and parents get all flustered.  Resist.  Resist the bubble.  At all costs.  Don't they realise these come from baby hell?

Walking

1. If you're a walker, high five! When in buggy, demand to get out and walk.  If you complain loud enough they will release you from the restraints.  It's best to do this when they're in a hurry.  Rushing is bad for blood pressure and anxiety levels so it's intrinsic that we slow them down.  It's for their own good.  We need to take them back to basics.  Let them appreciate this here world.  For every 5 steps we take forward take 3 back.  Introduce them to the treasures the world has to offer like flowers, rocks and sticks.  Give them their own collection to hold and cherish.  There's so much to see! Birdies, clouds, an aeroplane, dog shit! The latter is a good one, the closer you get the more they squeal.  Hours of fun!

2.  Sometimes they need a little variety in life, try taking them the opposite way to which they were thinking.  It gets them so excited!

3.  Every five minutes demand 'up' , they need the reassurance of a cuddle.  They're get quite anxious when separated from us, physically.  Silly parents!

4. Be careful not to create a rod for your back, if we let them carry us all the time they will always want to carry us.  Be cruel to be kind.  Every 5 minutes of being carried alternate with demanding to be put down. Then utilise the model of rapid return and demand up again just so they don't get too distressed.  It's a long hard slog but we must keep it up if we want them to learn.

5. We decide when it's buggy time.  We are the authority here.  If they attempt to force our hand with an early return to it.... RUN.  Run like the wind.  Run to the hills.  They will chase, it's okay they may look like they can't breath but it's just exercise.  They need this.  If they get ahead of themselves, fall.  Immediately follow this with screams.  Not only will they rightfully get to feel bad, you get cuddles and if you've trained them right, chocolate!

In the sling

1. Too much of a good thing makes them complacent.  Complacency is a bad bad thing.  Parents thrive on unpredictability.  It keeps their wits sharp and their sanity strong.  We like the sling.  They like the sling.  But as much as we'd like to make this easy, it's our duty not to.

If they put it on prior to leaving, we're good to go.  It's comfy and snuggly.  If you're on their back you get to style their hair for them, snot makes great gel! You can even decorate it and prettify their hair with whatever they let you eat.  They will let you eat.  It's payment for not kicking and biting.  We've earned it.

2. If they keep stopping they'll never stay fit.  If they dare stop and join queues and what not, it's our job to remind them that this is unacceptable.  Stillness is laziness.  They stop moving, we start crying.  It's a bit like pinching them, they'll start to jiggle and move.  If they stop, cry again.  They need the reminder, the encouragement.

3. There's a secret babywearers look.  Mums and dads give it to others.  If you see another babywearer, it's reallllly important you smile back.  Alternatively, should you encounter one of those pesky none-believers you need to help your parents demonstrate how easy it all is.  Pretend you're being tortured, I know it's hard but it's important.  It's necessary.  Pretend the lovely comfy sling is a contraption of terror.  It's important our parents get to relate an array if emotions, this one will trigger embarrassment.  It's a very productive emotion.  Funny too.  Now we have their attention lets demonstrate the safety of the sling, we know and they know that we're safe but we must enlighten the none believers.  Lean it to the right, lean it to the left and throw yourself back.  This gives the none believer a rare glimpse into just how secure we are.

4.  It's inevitable we'll be in and out of the sling whilst out.  People will stare, those none believers.  If our parents make it look too easy, people will get bored.  Our job here is to entertain.  To make them think on the spot.  Challenge them.  We must disguise how easy it all is and make it appear as awkward as possible.  The more flustered they get the longer it will take them to put us back in the sling and the more people get to watch.  Fidget, flail, whinge, squirm and struggle.  This is your moment to shine.  If you make it too hard they'll give up, we must reward their efforts.  Once secure and comfy, snuggle up.  It's of utmost importance you wait until you're alone and nobodies watching, then fall asleep.  It's safe now.  Your work is done.  It's exhausting work.  Relax.

In the shops

1. You get to ride in a big shiny trolley!  You gain extra height and increased reach.  Shopping is a tiring activity so it's our job to help poor old Mummy & Daddy.  We must put things in the trolley.  It doesn't matter what, get anything.  They're too self absorbed to notice or appreciate our help but the quicker we help fill the trolley the sooner we can all go home.  They make appear thankless, but it's okay.  We know we've helped and that's what's important.

2. If you feel they're taking too long, to recapture their attention try filling your nappy, it helps give them a change of scenery.  You could also remind them that you're hungry.  Really really HUNGRY.  A break is as good as a holiday.  By the time they've fed or changed us they'll have a renewed sense of focus.

3. Smile sweetly at the other shoppers.  Work it, work it baby.  Smile with your eyes.  Draw those suckers in.  You're beautiful.  You're adorable.  This means you will get more public support when your parents wrongly decide you can't have that new toy and you have to teach them a lesson by acting broken.  How dare your parents upset such a lovely child the shoppers will think.  Parents are the bad guys here and this will ensure everybody realises how mean they are.

On the Potty

Sometimes when we're out, Mummy & Daddy can really try and take advantage of our good nature.  They will say we have no time to chase pigeons, no time to go round the pet shop and no time to go round the toy shop yet plenty of time to go round their shops.  Remember too much of a good thing is bad for them.  We must teach them restraint.  If they've been looking in their boring shops for too long, it's time to go wee wee.  Trust me, they won't make you wait too long.

Once in the toilet:

1. They'll probably want to wee too, now is time to ask them questions so they don't get bored sat on the toilet.  It's important to ask them loudly because sometimes they pretend they can't hear us and don't answer.  Good questions include:

a) "Are you pooing Mummy?"
b) "Why is your front bum so hairy? / why is your willy so hairy?"
c) "Why does it smell so yucky?"
d) "Why are you opening sweeties in the toilet?"
e) "Why are you putting nappies in your knickers?"
f)  "You pumped!"

2. There's a great toy in here, it lets you pull paper out sheet by sheet! You have to see how many sheets you can pull out before Mummy/Daddy finishes weeing.

On the bus

1. You have a captured audience here.  This is the perfect opportunity to practice your new words.  to showcase them to your parents.  The special words that you have to be really grown up and clever to use.  they will be so proud! Start slowly and ease your way in with 'hiya', 'mama' and then wow them with 'shit'.  Watch your parents glow with pride!

2. If you've been talking a while, you can use your ability to help stop mum and dad becoming bored on the bus.  Keep them occupied otherwise they'll get bored and when parents get bored they get naughty.  Ask them questions about your surroundings like 'why does that lady have a beard?' 'why is that man so fat?' and 'why does that person smell so yuck?' it will increase their awareness of their surroundings and help them practice their talking.

Swearing

Final rant, promise.  Well, for now at least.

[Apparently this post may offend. Just to clarify this is my personal rant reflecting my personal opinions and peeves. If it offends you then your opposing opinion probably offends me too! ]

I have what could be termed as a potty mouth.  I swear like a trooper.  However, I rarely ever swear at or in the vicinity of my children.  There's basic boundaries you should have, just like when  I was a teenager, you swore all day long to your mates yet you wouldn't dare swear at your teacher, parent or neighbour.  You just didn't.  Likewise you didn't expect them to swear at you.  It was basic respect.

The problem these days is that people have forgotten the purpose, the function of swearing.  Swearing is technically profanity, the use of expletives.  Swearing is not and should not be a fashion of bridging sentences together.  A true bridge would be a word such as 'and'.

A simple trip on the bus will surround you with conversation of 'yeah i fucking went and saw Si the other fucking day he was well off his fucking head the stupid c*nt'  What purpose really does that kind of sentence serve?  Does it makes the person appear literate?  Educated? Profound? Poignant?  Does the excessive and lazy utilisation of expletives make a point? No.  So many words in the dictionary, yet they can't appear to think of any alternatives.  It's not nice to hear this, it's irritating.  It becomes worse when travelling with your children and they become subjected to this atrocious misuse of the English language.  It's become so natural that people have no awareness that they're actually doing it and often appear none plussed when The Husband, for The Spawns sake, pulls them up on it and requests they adjust their language.

If you want to use profanity and expletives, do so by all means but have some grasp of the correct useage of them first! Educate yourself with a basic understanding on their purpose.

An expletive is supposed to have an effect, it's supposed to be vulgar.  An emphasis.

I'm absolutely appalled at how many parents appear to openly and routinely swear in front of and at times to their children.  It's unnecessary and in my opinion irresponsible.  It's why by age 8 your child may be swearing right back at you.  They've become so used to hearing it with no basic understanding of it that it becomes a part of their every day language.  I also don't appreciate you swearing profusely and needlessly right outside the Nursery whilst waiting for the Two, Three and Four year olds to enter/exit.

Where has the basic parenting gone?  Surely it is common sense that you don't swear at nor in the vicinity of Children? Why on earth would you? There's thousands of  none expletives!

It makes me sad.  It makes me angry. It's irresponsible and lazy.

We're not perfect, occasionally the odd expletive slips out, usually a b-grade, rarely an A-grade expletive. We're only human.   Granted The Husband is guiltier than me.  Especially when he's wrong or losing an argument.  It's an awareness of it that matters.  Taking the effort to refrain.  Behaving appropriately around children.

Then again I'm also a firm believer that if a parent must smoke, that too should not be done around nor in sight of their children.  Children learn through replicating the behaviours and attitudes they see around them.

As parents we are their role models, surely part of that responsibility to to try and continually be a better one.

Granted once the kids are out or asleep, the air turns blue with my somewhat colourful language but that's all part of the job.

16 reasons why your toddler may in fact be a dog (& vice versa)

I miss The Dog terribly, there is an incredible hole in the family without him, yet if you think about it...... if you have a toddler or preschooler, they're practically the same.  One is just slightly less furry than the other.....

1. They both randomly lick and slobber on you.

2. They both get pissed off if you go out without them.

3. Both like walkies

4. Both announce in their own special ways when they need the loo.  Then expect you to clean up after them.

5. Both need grooming.

6. Both nick your food

7. Both will jump all over your furniture, with mucky paws.

8. Bath time is an... interesting and incredibly wet affair with both of them.

9. Both fetch you their toys and demand you play then have the audacity to get pissy, because you have their toy.

10. Both wait until you finally sit down and relax before they full on assault you with a physical display of their uhm ... 'Love'

11. Both physically attach themselves to people that dare to visit your home.

12. Both have a special relationship with the postman/letterbox.

13. Both follow you around the house, get under your feet and threaten to be the cause of you tumbling down the stairs.

14. Both insist on accompanying you to the loo.

15. Both can be trained to fetch your slippers, yet will try and keep them for themselves.

16. They're both noisy little sods.

Hell: Soft Play

Something Dark & Evil lurks within.....

Due to various mental issues, yes this girl has issues, it's rare that i leave the house on my own let alone avec l'enfants.  So imagine the grand masochistic mood I must have been in when last week, whilst The Husband was away, I decided to afflict the torturous idea of going to soft play.  If there is a hell on earth, it looks like soft play.

Granted it took several hours for me to fortify the little mental reserve I possess to leave the house then once at the cash machine, the urge to return home was overwhelming.

Once the game was up and The Spawn realised where we were headed there really was no turning back, resistance would have been futile not to mention bloody noisy.

Now before you all go accusing me of being a judgmental old cow, I'll do two things.  First, i'll agree.  We all judge people be it internally via our sardonic little internal narrators or externally through a bloody big gob.   Secondly, i'll judge myself first.  Yes, I was the nervous weirdo who looked like i'd a) escaped from a mental ward b) like I was insanely and indescribably  uncomfortable.  I was the woman who met nobodies gaze and picked out a table at the edge with my back to all other tables and the play frame in front of me.  I'm the weirdo who looked like she could vomit up a pharmacy worth of Zoloft at any given moment and gouge out her own eyeballs with a ball, from the ball pool.  I was the woman with no partner nor friends.  I was the woman who's lifeline was her phone and her crochet, yes I took my fucking crochet with me.  For distraction.  I was the woman who's heart was going like the clappers and was chewing her inner cheeks to shreds.

So now that's out of the way, there's everyone else.

The place appeared to be soley run by teenagers, all of which still looked terrifically hung over from the night before or perhaps even that morning.  Lucky Bastards.

Glancing around the general female population appeared to have more makeup than actual face who's primary reason for being there appeared to be soley to posture and pose.  Duck lips a-go-go I felt like I was trapped in some vile alternate reality of the bogs and expected them to take selfies every few seconds.

Dads were few and far between taking a similar escape route as mine yet choosing to hide at the very back of the venue, with laptops.  Genius!.  The kids will never find them there!

The place was packed, ridiculously packed with at least one party going on.  This however didn't deter some of the parents allowing babies to crawl through the large play frame area.  I mean really?  There's a baby area for them, the place is literally exploding with sweaty little beasts running rampant and they put babies in their paths?  Needless to say it wouldn't possibly be their fault if the poor little sods got trampled on.

Then there's the 'children' who look like they should be at work, breaking all the rules, squishing the smalls as they cause absolute havoc taking over the place.

You get the parents who appear to forget that they have to actually parent as their little darlings push, shove and force their way through the play frames and then decide to take over the baby and toddler area too which they are clearly too large to be in.  As a parent it's your job to accept the rules of the place and bloody well ensure your little gits are abiding by them.  Other people shouldn't have to tell your children to get out of the baby area.  If your cretins appear to forget how to behave around others, trust me, you really don't want other people like me to remind them.  I will eat your children if they piss me off.  Be a parent, remind them of basic bloody manners around others.

I have a rule.  Under no circumstances will I enter the play frame.  None.  As a child I didn't even like slides. Not to mention i'm fat and also pregnant.  The Spawn for told that as this was The Preschoolers first time on the main equipment they were to stick to him like glue.  This naturally  resulted in The Preschooler brandishing an unnatural brand of courage and trying to 'lose' them so that Thing Two had a full on emotional breakdown thinking she'd lost him.

The other reason I don't go in there is the ball pool, who only knows which kids have had a sneaky piss or a quick mouthful of vomit erupt in there. Grim.

Despite it having been years since we last went (yes, The Spawn are that deprived)  they still have failed to install adequate air conditioning so that the rampant hoards of wilderkinder in their over excited exuberant state all look close to a) vomiting en masse b) passing out or c) entering full bezerker mode.

Looking around you see random little children in floods of tears as their parents issue a backhanded 'you'll be fine, now fuck off and play so I can continue my adult conversation, cup of tea and a danish without you' kind of response when all their child wants is to be reassured that their arm isn't broken or their eye isn't really bleeding.

Other children get rescued from being trampled on, their parents rightfully rant about it to their possee of other adults who accompanied them before once again hurling the little victim right back into the thick of it without sticking around to see they're okay.

I'm trying not to sock watch as I idly wonder if verrucas crunch.  I go to my happy place (Hello Mr Northman, why yes I will lick that Gin off of your....) as I try to ignore the extra shine on the equipment that is actually copious amounts of snot.

I bought a jug of juice as it was the only thing I didn't need to take out a loan to purchase and tried to ignore how the cups were all still wet and avoided sniffing them.  I should have brought Gin.

You disappear to the loo, holding your breath as the stench rises like a miasma threatening to consume you armed with a pack of tissues, because there will be no bog roll.  This you know.

To top it off, to really ensure you realise that this is indeed hell.  You were bad in a past life.  This is your punishment. They turn the music up, so that you can't hear your child cry or scream.  It's not even music.  It's fucking Abba.  Kill me now.  Please.

Thankfully the husband on his shiny steed arrived eventually and thirty minutes later the torturous two hours was up, my purse was so empty it was writing bad poetry to me whilst growing a fringe, we were free!  I could breath again.

I did it.  I took the kids out on my own.  You probably do this everyday.  For me however this is an epic achievement.  I did something normal.  Despite the shaking and the panic, I went and I stayed.

Nursery: Hooray I haven't broken my kids

You may remember a post nearly six months ago, about The Preschooler, who's not at preschool, yet.  No matter what you do or indeed choose not to do, as a parent, you will always have moments of doubt. Doubt is a natural feeling that enables us to examine our choices, proving we're not infallible and helps to balance our conscience, heart and head to make level headed choices.  For if we did not have moments of doubt how could we thus be so sure of our conviction?  It's proof we're sentient; that we're human.

Despite the confidence in my decision to delay Preschool, again there is that element of dread that tugs on ribbons of my heart as the inevitable time arrives when we decide 'It's time.'  The time arrives through a marriage of knowing the time is right and the need for an introduction to school structure before they'e thrown in at the deep end in September.  For Thing One and The Preschooler this is usually around six months before they start full time school (Thing Two went a year before due to her Birthday).

It doesn't matter how many times you've been through this before with the rest of your brood, your heart still plummets and your brain aches as you question your own parenting.  You can never quite fully convince yourself that you're doing the right thing, whatever that is.

So you take your feisty, funny, noisy, cheerful, confident little person to a taster session and they transform into a static mute limpet.  You don't blame them really, it's an alien environment.  Things One & Two had been used to spending a day a week with The Grandparents yet due to the new shinier grandchild, called 'An Apartment in Spain' we felt sending him sporadically to theirs when they're in England would defeat the object of a semi-routine and prove confusing.  You've never even left them, you have no money to go anywhere, nobody to go with and in all honesty as unhealthy as it may be, you don't want to leave them.  You see it pointless in having forces separation when you don't want it, why should you endure it just to please others? (much to relatives, doctors and The Husbands protests). Anyone who's been a long term reader will have probably realised by now that we don't 'do' groups and the like and instead focus more on attachment and socialisation through general life and ourselves.  So this, essentially, was the first time he's been in an enclosed space filled with similar sized children as well as unknown grownups who seemed insistent on being his 'friend'.  It's a lot to take in, a hoard of rampant snot monsters whizzing their tits off around him in an unfamiliar setting.

In this situation it's hard to remember that his sudden introverted state was a perfectly normal and human reaction to the situation and environment.  Yet the typical Mother's guilt kicks in as you begin to question yourself, gulping down the blame like it's Gin in the witching hour as the thought resonates and swells within your head 'I did this.  I've broken my child'  You're not even exactly sure whether it's your decision to bring them here that broke them or the fact you didn't do it sooner yet one thing you are sure of is that you've broken your child.  It's your fault.  You don't even know how to fix this, to fix them.   You find yourself nervously burbling at the staff that he does talk, honest and that he's actually a little hurricane normally.

Yet somehow, somewhere beneath it all.  You understand.  You're already, naturally supporting them.  You accept their reaction.  It's a valid reaction.  You neither attempt to coax nor throw them into the deep end so to speak.  You may not always trust yourself yet as always you're instinctively trusting your child.  You accept their hesitancy.  You remain visible and accessible, the proverbial rock in the ocean that they can navigate towards should they need you as they stare at you uncertainly whilst the well meaning teacher takes them by the hand and away from you.  You resist the urge to follow despite that tiny look of pleading in your childs eyes.  Yet you keep eye contact should they need it.  You don't follow yet nor do you move, you remain the rock so that they can get back to you.  So that they know you're still there.

You accept their return.  It's a lot to take in, both people and environment.  This is not neutral ground.  So, you tackle one at a time, you engage with your child within the new environment, helping them stain it with some familiarity.

The Teacher has forms, sign this, sign that .... your child looks stranded.  It would be easy to nudge them towards something or someone yet you know your child.  They don't need flooding with it, they need to assess and observe.  They need to now it's a can situation not a must situation.  Through accepting their uncertainty, validating it, you're helping them process it.

The little parental voices are whispering to you that you've failed, you're failing.  This is a test.  Your child isn't normal.  If you'd been a good parent they'd have made six friends already.  You've broken your child.

Yet just because the voices are there, it doesn't follow that they speak the truth.  These are the voices that tell you you're useless, fat and ugly.  These voices lie.

Fuck the voices.

These ludicrous expectations, aren't real.  How your child feels and reacts is real.  This is normal.  Your child is actually exhibiting perfectly appropriate behaviour to the situation.

The next session goes much the same way.  You're convinced you're condemning them to abject misery.

Then the first real day comes round.  The day you're supposed to leave this version of your child that seems a mere shadow of the one you know at home.

Every fibre of your being is screaming at you not to do this.  It seems unnatural to leave them in this situation they're evidently uncomfortable with in the hands of, what are really mere strangers.  You are physically fighting the urge to scoop them up and run, run to the hills, run home.

But you do fight it.

You leave them, with a kiss.

They're not clinging to you.  They're not crying.  They're not asking you to stay.

Yet they should be, afterall, all that extended breastfeeding, babywearing, co-sleeping and over attachment ruins them don't you know?  It's surprising you can walk with all those rods on your back.  They'll never function normally.  You've broken your child.

You go.  You worry.  The few hours feel like days.

Yet when you pick them up the staff assure you he's been absolutely fine.  You ask if he actually spoke, he did.

It continues.  Once again you're breaking societies expectations.  He's entitled to five sessions, yet you're only taking him for two.  For now.  For us, this isn't about child care, so thus we don't use it as such.

By the second session, you've been told he's joining in fine, he's made some friends.  He's interacting naturally because he's neither been forces to nor had any expectations impressed upon him.  This is him being in control.

He goes in excited.  He comes out excited.  He's never asked not to go.  Like his siblings he's shown zero distress.  He's happy.  Be it because of or despite of our choices.

So the truth is,  I didn't break my children.  Just like through doing things your way to suit your parenting/life didn't break yours.

 Different doesn't equal wrong.

Trust yourself, your parenting and your child.  It doesn't matter how you think they're supposed to react or be, that's not reality.  Reality is who they are and how they react.  Whatever and however that is, is okay.  Don't change yourself nor your child to try and aspire to be whatever you think normal is.  Everyone's normal is different.  Normal doesn't even exist, really.  It's just a word.  A word sent to break us.

So I didn't send my child to nursery until he was about 3yrs10m old and I haven't broken him.

That deserves celebration.  Gin in my soup it is then!